


One More Visit

by HeWhoShallNotBeCaughtReadingFanFics



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Mental Institutions, Reunions, insane!John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:57:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeWhoShallNotBeCaughtReadingFanFics/pseuds/HeWhoShallNotBeCaughtReadingFanFics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all live one more time...</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Visit

One more miracle for me, Sherlock. Don’t be dead. one more. One more. One more. One more. One more. One more...”

John trailed off into the mumbled demands. He fused his eyes shut to soak himself in the memory.

“He’s my friend. One more. Let me through. One more. Oh God, no. One more.”

The splatters of blood over the ghost of his past[a] filled his eyes just as it did all those years ago. Tears glazed them over and fall as fast as the body hit the floor. Even as that thought passed, John started the thrashing again.

There wasn’t much in the room, but the mattress, sheets, and forest green plastic chair that was positioned just as it was in the now abandoned flat across the town. Matter of fact, the room was decorated as such. The hospital no longer let residential patients paint the wall. In revolt, he drew and drew. Yellow smiley face in the corner, the union jack flag pillow on the chair, skull on the mantle, and even severed body parts. However the drawings always came down and were torn apart during his episodes.

John let out strangled moans of incomprehensible sorrow. He took a pale hand and gripped the first thing in his reach, the paper dixie cup filled with forgotten lukewarm tea. To the wall, it went with a small thump. He pounded on the side of the desk from his low spot on the ground one time, two times, three and the nurse finally rushed in.

“John? John, it’s me. It’s Nurse Mary. Can you hear me?”

She crouched down and brushed his shoulder.

“You’re here, John. It’s okay. I’m here and no one else.”

He clinged to her leg and let out a small wail. John loved the warmth of people and hated to be left all alone, but there was only one visiting day and most of those were spent alone or were pitied by the staff. This time he remained at the feet of Nurse Mary remembering that Sherlock was gone or, as they say, didn’t even exist.

It was utter nonsense to John that they couldn’t find any record of Sherlock Holmes in the  
system. He didn’t exist, let alone committed suicide, or was consulting detective, or even lived with him for those eighteen months. That’s what the doctors always said, however John thought otherwise. Oh, the adventures they went on and the new world Sherlock had reminded him of. There was no longer watching brutal deaths of many who crossed. John eventually thought himself as a tumbleweed of destruction bringing misery, woe, and overall death to anything and everything he traveled to.

Harry decided to send him here. Although she couldn’t exactly help herself, maybe she could repay her brother for all the lonesome years. Desperate to find safety and sanctuary for him, she finally convinced him to go “out for some air”. Little did he know, their drive turned into an all night fight between a doctor and some sedatives which he eventually took. He’s been there ever since.

Nurse Mary waited until the tears and whimpers died down enough to help John to the nearest chair. The extra weight made the chair squeak and whine. The bed mat enjoined the noise as she sat beside him.

“So what was the night terror about this time?” As if she didn’t already know.

“one more He fell. one more Again. one more one more one more one more...”

John rocked back and forth, slightly wheezing. It appeared as though he thought the leverage would give him air in his lungs. It comforted him somehow and Nurse Mary just watched, amused with how someone could go mad by watching an imaginary figure die. They often sat in silence until John rocked himself back to his half asleep state, however he remained restless and Nurse Mary was more than happy to encourage John to talk.

“How does he fall again?”

“He jumped. one more From here one more...”

“How many times did fall now?”

“one more 19 times one more...”

“You know I’ve said this before, but John, no one can die more than once. You know that, right?”

John nodded his head, but the mutterings became more rapid and soon it was clear that he was going to have another attack. The nurse got up from the bed, the springs squealing in relief, and knelt down.

“You seem tired, Mr. Watson, but you can’t sleep, can you?”

“one more one more one more one more one more one more one more...”

“I’ll get Doctor Lestrade. Sit tight for me, love.”

Nurse Mary left the room with a single glance of the pale man with the dark circles trapped in the past that didn’t even exist and for the first time since she started working here, she sincerely felt sorry for him.

Doctor Lestrade wasn’t hard to find. There wasn’t many that had to work the nightshift. Perhaps it was because there was only one patient that needed some sort of medical attention routinely. Whatever the matter, John liked him. He claimed that Sherlock and him would go help solve Greg’s cases, as if he were a detective all his life instead of in medical school. Tonight there was no difference.

“Greg,” Mary called out into the office down the eggshell colored hallway.

“Yes, Mary?”

Greg looked up and saw the familiar face of worry that ever employees wore. Soon that face would harden and morph into a stoic stare of reality. He sighed and looked back down at his coffee.

“Is it John?”

“Yes, Greg. He’s started again, the chants. He’s not well. He won’t sleep. You have to--.”

“Mary, listen to me. You have to realize that I’ve been working for 22 years. Now I know that he’s mad, but I’ve seen a man madder than him. We can’t do anything but stabilize him. It’s up to him to want to get better. I’ll give him something to make him sleep, but I just want you to remember that there’s a reason I’m not a psychologist. Take what’s in the job description, nothing else.”

Doctor Lestrade got up from his spinny chair and started down the hall past Mary, but she grabbed his sleeve before he could get far.

“What happened to that man?”

“Killed himself. Strangled with a bedsheet. He had a problem with staying alive. To him, it wasn’t worth it. Ordinary this, ordinary that. Iconic, isn’t it?”

Nurse Mary and Doctor Lestrade made their way to the medical department and back to John’s room in silence. Honesty has a tendency to do that. By the time they opened the door, John was back in the far left corner of the room, curled up in the darkness, chair thrown into abandon, muttering the same phrase.

“Mr. Watson?”

“one more one more one more one more one more one more Greg..?”

Lestrade cleared his voice and dragged his chair over to sit beside the man in the corner. Mary chose to reside in the same seat upon the bed while they tried to console them the best way they could.

“Now, John, I heard that you won’t sleep. Do you remember the last time you’ve slept?”

“one more one more one more Awhile one more one more...”

“Well according to your chart, it’s actually been about a day and a half. Aren’t you tired?”

John gave a stiff nod, yet every time he closed his eyes he saw him again. He remembered and that sent the thoughts over and over again. The sleepless nights were not spent doing nothing.

“Well, John, you remember what we gave you last time, right? The Benadryl?”

A stiff nod.

“Well do you think that helped?”

Silence; A rapid phrase ghosting over his lips.

“John, you’ve slept for around 4 hours. I’d like to make that longer so I’m going to up the milligrams. Are you alright with that?”

Another stiff, singular nod.

“Good.”

The two of them managed to lift the man from the corner floor and to his bed and propped him against the wall. Doctor Lestrade pulled out the metal tin with a small white pill in the middle. Mary stepped out into the hallway to get a cup of water, hoping that it wouldn’t end up beside that others forgotten. The ripping of tin clashed with happiness in the soulless place.

“Alright, now open up.”

Lestrade placed the pill directly on his tongue and Mary held out the plain dixie cup which John took with shaky hands. After swallowing, he opened up again, proud of his accomplishments.

“Okay, give it about 15 minutes and you should wake up just in time for breakfast. Maybe this time, you’ll end up joining the group."

Stiff nod.

“Or atleast try your best. Okay. I’ve got to do my rounds and make sure there’s no one else awake alongside you. So see you later, big guy.”

Lestrade got up from the bed and made his way towards the door with Mary trailing behind, but at the faint grunt, he turned his head.

“G-Greg one more one more..? The Aluminium Crutch one more one more one more one  
more Still your favorite entry?”

The physician looked down at his sneakers and sighed. He didn’t even know what the “Aluminium Crutch” was, yet it was claimed to be his past. How? But he took a look at the mess of man in front of him who, in his own mind, lost a best friend. It wasn’t in his job description, but he could atleast give the guy some hope.

“Of course. You’ll have to write me another entry sometime.”

He left with a grimace and Mary tagged along, leaving him with a “you-know-where-I’ll-be”. John waited for the sleep to accept him.

About five minutes had passed by and the mutterings finally slowed a bit however the door silently creaked open almost as if by itself and just as it opened it closed letting in the nighttime vision. Perhaps it was the medication of his cares of who entered his room were diminished, John remained looking at the ceiling counting the tiles until he heard that bone chilling, smooth, baritone tessitura that he thought he’d ever hear again.

“John Hamish Watson, you have really let yourself go.”

Immediately John leapt up from the bed, but was tucked back down in by the resurrected man.

“No, stay down. You’ll use up all your energy like that. Now sit and listen. There’s a reason that I’m not real. I deleted myself, like Irene or your excuse for primary school astronomy in my mind palace. Don’t worry. I’m not dead, but I need you to do something for me. I need you to get better for me. I’m destroying Moriarty’s web and then I’m coming back for you. I can get you out of this place, but not with you like this. ‘Insane Patient on the Loose!’ People will talk and not for the reasons you think. So I need you to actually go to your groups. I need you to listen to Mary. Actually think about what she says. Then, if you still believe in me, I’ll get you out of here. Can you do that for me, John?

A vigorous nod.

“Now I don’t have much time left. Lestrade finished his rounds, but he’ll be back or Mary will be at least. Ugh, how do you manage in here? It’s so boring in this daft room! I like the art though. You’ve drawn me? Wait I don’t even look like that! You’ve got the jawline all wrong! Do you even-- Oh.”

Sherlock stopped his ramblings and pacing around the room. He looked down to see his best friend crying.

“What? What’s the matter?”

“I didn’t think I’d see you again. You are my miracle.”

“Oh. Well, erm great. Just get well soon.”  
Pure silence.

“I guess I’ll be going--”

“No, stay with me, one more. Just until I fall asleep. Let me know this wasn’t one more dream.”

Without hesitating, he peeled off his coat and climbed across the former roommate, holding him though the duvet. After while, the trembling ceased and the flicker of dark blue eyes and eyelids appeared.

“It’s okay, John. Go to sleep you so can start to get better. I’ll see you soon.”

A single droplet rolled down his cheek as he fell into a covenant of dreams maybe eve  
better than the one he fell asleep to . As for Sherlock, he left a small peck on the forehead of his fallen friend and began to leave, but with less things than what he came with.

~~~

The next morning, John woke at around 10 to an empty room. He sighed, another dream, but he rolled over, inhaling the scent of his own and something more. Cologne? What? It wasn’t a... John shot straight up and jumped right out, looking any clues that Sherlock was there. He found what he was looking for in the lap of his sitting chair in the corner. A hat. The hat. The deer stalker hat. While Sherlock despised it with a great intensity, John cherished it at that moment. He did so because in this place, he was screaming at the top of his lungs, “I believe in Sherlock Holmes” and to him, his hat smiled right back and said, “I believe in you, too, John Watson.” That was all he needed to hear to leave his room that day.

John took a step out into the hallway, squinting against the fluorescent lights. It was so much livelier in the daytime. He padded down to follow the sound of chattering of voices down past the hallway.

When he found everyone on the floor in the community room, he didn’t exactly join in. It was the shout of one young girl in her twenties with the lime green wristband that he also wore.

“It’s him!”

There was a rapid wave of turning heads and a group of about 11 adults all aging from 18 to 50, one of which he knew. To John, he was Mike Stamford, the same person who introduced Sherlock to him. Were these his students?

“John,” Mike reached for a handshake which was accepted briefly, “it is very good to see. Please, there’s a seat next to Philip and Sally or there’s another next to Henry. We started a discussion of the stages of grief."

John sat in the circle next to the boy they called Henry. He tried to focus on what Mike was talking about, but his eyes became glued to the hat still clutched in his hand. He felt the hat’s fabric and pattern, mesmerized by the texture.

“What do you think, John?”

He looked up immediately to Mike.

“Do you think there’s life after death?”

His answer came immediately. After all, it’s all he had been thinking of. How can it all be real?

“We can all live one more time.”

A comforting silence filled the room, yet all but too soon Mike started talking again and this time John tried harder to concentrate.

Throughout the day, John stayed with the group. He didn’t contribute much after that, but his presence alone made a big difference. When Mary clocked in that night, she was a bit cautious on what the state of John was going to be, however she knew Doctor Lestrade would help. He always did.

That night when all the other patients were asleep Mary went to go check on John. She didn’t bother knocking, but cracked the door open. Instead of the usual corner sulking, John was in his bed. He was still awake, but softly petting the hat as if it were human. Mary closed the door behind her, but she heard a scrambling around the room. The sudden silence was disturbed by a paper, no, several pieces of paper entitled, “One More Visit” that slid from underneath the door.

“Greg wanted one more,” John muffled through the door.

When the doctor finished reading, his stoic expression became furrowed.

“This is good, Mary, really good. Maybe he’ll be a really good fiction writer. Someone got into his room last night? Please, we have one of the highest security rates.”

“But Greg, he has this hat! I was talking to Nurse Molly and she says it’s been with him all day and no one knows where it came from!”

“You’re also forgetting that he slept 8 hours last night! He hasn’t done that since he entered here! Now let him understand that Sherlock Holmes was fake, then we’ll deal with the hat!”

They sat in silence, swimming into the deep sea of paperwork, but the staccatos of both beepers disrupted them. Mary and Greg checked the message and looked back at one another.

"Wrong."


End file.
